


It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.

by miriad



Category: Indiana Jones Series
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fountain of Youth, Nazis, POV Second Person, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Found item of interest. Needs your expertise. Come Immediately. Chiapas. RT.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Reinhold Trevors.  Archeologist.  Adventurer.  Pain in your ass.  But he's written you for help, which he hasn't done before, ever.  This is new.  This is exciting.  This gets your blood going.</p>
<p>"So?"  Edith asks when you look up.  You can feel your face twist into something unpleasant, but you don't care.  Chiapas.  Sounds familiar but not something you know well.  Why does he think you have the expertise?  Your brain is running a million miles an hour.  Edith is a fly buzzing around your face, so you brush her off.</p>
<p>"So, thanks for dropping this off.  Just a note between old friends."  You throw your bag over your shoulder, bite into an apple and wince at the mealiness of it, crumpling the telegram as you thrust it into your pocket.  You're already thinking about what you'll need for the trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaena6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaena6/gifts).



_University of Chicago - 1961_

You get the telegram on a Tuesday afternoon. The secretary waits until your last lecture lets out, until the last lingering student is done fawning all over you, which used to drive you nuts but now makes your day.

You wonder how they can still make eyes at you, with the wrinkles around your eyes, all the gray in your hair, the receding hairline that you can't seem to make stop. And, despite all the adventures that you still go on, although less now than before, you've started to get an old man paunch. What they see in you is beyond you, but you'll take what you can get.

You're glad she waits.

You collect the apples from your desk as she starts talking to you.

"Telegram. Seemed urgent. We have no idea what it means." Edith is her name, you remember from the mandatory office mixer you got dragged to by the new Dean, after Brody passed away. If you want the kind of freedom the University grants you, to travel, to adventure, to not have to follow all the rules, you have to start playing by at least some of the rules. At least, that was the implication.

"Wasn't intended for you." You mutter, starting to sound like the grumpy old man you never intended to be. You've got the apples in your bag, and you hold a hand out for the paper. 

Edith's in her mid-forties, wears a pair of cat's eye glasses that are all the rage with the younger co-eds but don't really fit her face or her age, although you aren't going to say anything to her. She's got the air of the terminally unmarried, the kind of woman who will always flirt with you no matter how old you get because you are equally unmarried.

She hands it to you without a word and waits. You ignore her and read.

_Found item of interest. Needs your expertise. Come Immediately. Chiapas. RT._

Reinhold Trevors. Archeologist. Adventurer. Pain in your ass. But he's written you for help, which he hasn't done before, ever. This is new. This is exciting. This gets your blood going.

"So?" Edith asks when you look up. You can feel your face twist into something unpleasant, but you don't care. Chiapas. Sounds familiar but not something you know well. Why does he think you have the expertise? Your brain is running a million miles an hour. Edith is a fly buzzing around your face, so you brush her off.

"So, thanks for dropping this off. Just a note between old friends." You throw your bag over your shoulder, bite into an apple and wince at the mealiness of it, crumpling the telegram as you thrust it into your pocket. You're already thinking about what you'll need for the trip.

*

Turns out Chipas is a place in Mexico, an area that's connected to the Mayans, which isn't your area of expertise at all. So what was Reinhold going on about?

It's hard to get to by anything other than horse or donkey, and they prefer donkey.

You have to fly in to British Honduras, simply because it's closer to where you're going if you don't want to sit in a car, on a horse or a donkey for days on end before getting to where you're going. 

You stay in Belize City for the night, enjoying a nice hotel before you have to rough it, although roughing it does have it perks but you are no longer a young man. Your back is already protesting, after the long flight, and even though you want to ignore it, you pop an aspirin before you hit the sheets.

You hire a car to drive you to the border because you have reading to do and not a lot of time to do it in, plus it's just easier to let someone else figure out the rules of the road in a country you've never spent much time in. You want to get the reading done but you fall asleep before it's even been an hour.

You wake up with your reading glasses in your lap, your notes on the floor, and the border guards asking for what you know is a bribe.

This isn't your first rodeo, so you let your guide "negotiate" before you hand over the cash that you brought for this express purpose. 

The driver lets you out at the border and you meet your contact. 

He looks younger than Short Round, but looks can be deceiving.

"Hey Kid," you say, in English, to test the waters. He merely nods at you, raises a chin, giving nothing away. Smart, you think, and smile. You can handle smart. You decide, though, that you don't want to get robbed by smart so you won't take you money out in front of this one, if you don't have to.

You hired the kid through a contact you had through a friend of a friend of a friend, a series of telegrams and phone calls made as you rushed to get out the door and to the airport. There was a telegram waiting for you at the Miami airport to let you know that all had been arranged, just as you'd asked. That's how you knew he'd be there. 

But favors don't amount to trust, you know that better than most.

He's got a cart and a donkey, with room in the back for you. Your old bones groan a bit when you notice that there's padding but it's old straw and a few ratty blankets. You've made do with worse but that was a few thousand miles ago, and about twenty years.

_It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage._

The years don't help, though, now that you have them. 

You toss your bag in the back, settle your fedora down on your forehead, and you jump in. Your knees creak and your back aches but you shut up and settle in.

The kid says nothing, just slaps the reigns, such as they are, against the back of the donkey, and gets the beast moving.

You fall asleep, the sun warm on your face, the smell of animal, and fresh grass surrounding you, the hint of an adventure sitting in the back of your mind.

*

You snap awake to the sound of someone shouting in German and your first thought is that you're having some kind of flashback. 

Which isn't unheard of, you've had them before. The only problem is, you're awake, certainly not dreaming, even though it's pitch black.

The kid's off the cart, his eyes just peaking over the side, you can see them catching the light of the moon.

"I thought we were gonna stop for the night." You tell him, pointing a finger. His eyes dart over and meet yours but he doesn't say anything. "I know you know what I'm saying." He ducks down behind the cart.

You lay still, the sounds of German washing over you. The language is sharp and it makes all your old aches and pains twinge, memories of old adventures, of times past. What the hell are Germans doing in Mexico?

"Juan? That you? With the groceries?"

That voice. Holy hell, you know that voice.

"Marion?" You can't help it, the words just come out of your mouth.

"Juan, thank god you're here. I'm in desperate need of rice and those chocolate bars." Her face pops over the cart, weathered, a bit wrinkled, and definitely more gray in her hair, but it's Marion. Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on. "Jones," she says out of the corner of her mouth, "shut up, stay down, and let me take care of this. I'm trying to help you here."

"Marion, what-" Your mouth just keeps talking, what the hell?

"What did I just say? Shut. Up." She pushes away from the cart and you can hear her snap her fingers at the boy. You have no idea if Juan is his real name or not. You're not sure if you'll ever know. In a second, the cart starts moving and you stay where you are.

The ride takes much, much longer than you're expecting. You fall asleep with German still echoing in your ears.

*  
"Come on, Jones. Let's go. Rise and shine."

It's dark, probably the middle of the night. You have no idea. You sit up, groaning as the aches and pains that are now a part of everyday life let themselves be known, compounded by the shitty ride. 

Marion's dressed in the same kind of clothes you always knew her to wear in the field- long pants and a long sleeved workman's shirt, both worn and dirty. She looks tired, as tired as she ever has, but still good looking. You debate making a comment about that, but decide against it. You like your balls where they are.

The kid is long gone at this point, nowhere to be seen. You don't ask. Usually better that way. You hope she at least paid him. You hope that she used her money. You're pretty sure she used yours. You hope she left some in your wallet.

"Where are we?" You sit up and rub at your eyes, pushing your fedora back on your head.

"Where did you think you were going?" 

"Got word there was a find in the Chiapas Highlands. Got asked to come down, take a look."

"Got word, huh. From who?"

"Reinhold Trevors." You watch her face as you tell her, see the way that her mouth twitches and suddenly her appearance there makes sense. You've been duped. God. Damnit. "Reinhold didn't send that telegram," you say, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. "You did."

"I didn’t think you'd come, otherwise." She at least has the sense to look at least a little guilty about the whole thing.

You know that you would have, in a heartbeat, but the look on her face tells you that she doesn't. You're an asshole and she deserves better. If you had a hundred years to do it over, you'd show her that you could be better. No one's that lucky, certainly not you.

She takes a step towards you but stops as you wriggle your way off the back of the cart, a cascade of straw following you off the back of it. You can feel it sticking out of your shirt, your skin itchy, covered in dried sweat and dirt.

"So, you sent the telegram. Okay, fine." You spin in a circle, looking around at the shack that Marion's brought you to, the mountains behind you, the glow from the bonfires of the people you left behind. The German speaking people. You'd like to believe they were gentle folk. Tourists. Your current locale makes you think that they are anything but innocent. "Where are we? What is this place?"

"The Fountain of Youth."

You stop moving and just stare at her. You've seen too much to discount her. You've lived through the Ark, with Marion, so you know that she's seen the same kind of shit that you have. You wonder if that experience has driven her crazy. If she's simply seeing things.

And then the part of you that has held mystical items in your hands, has seen water from the Holy Grail itself heal a man, wants to believe.

“How’d you even find out about this place?” You know a number of the myths. You know that Ponce de Leon chased them to Florida, that there are legends leading people to the Bahamas, others to Puerto Rico, still others to South America.

“I’m like you, Jones. Got bit by the bug and had to keep exploring.” Marion looks away for a moment, biting her lip. “I was in the Bahamas, on vacation more than anything else, when I starting to find all these relics, just sitting in a flea market, and started piecing together this map. A map that led here.”

“Couldn’t have been that simple.” You can't believe it was that simple because it's never that simple for you. Why should it be that way for an amateur?

“Of course it wasn’t that simple. And it took years. I’m trying to save time, here, so just let me, will ya?” She blows a stray curl out of her eye and the years seem to just melt off her face. You keep your hands to yourself but it takes noticeable effort.

"So tell me then," you mutter, more a grumble than anything, but you're watching her face, the light in her eyes.

"We thought we'd found Bimini, that's what all the translations were telling us, but when we put it all on a map, all the clues and the coordinates, it wasn't close to the islands at all. It was here." She points down, towards her feet. "Chipas. The Highlands. Everyone else on the project called it a wash, said that we must have just mistranslated something, but not me, Jones. I've seen too much shit to write it off as a 'translation error'." She grins at you then, eyes blazing, alive and kicking.

"You came alone," you say, grinning back at her, impressed at the sheer balls she's carrying around in her trousers. 

"Yeah," she says, her grin faltering. She looks back over her shoulder, towards the camp where the glow of the bonfires reflect off the low clouds. "And found them."

"Who's 'them', Marion? I heard German, but-"

"Nazis, Jones. Don't tell me you can't tell a Nazi when you hear one." She spits in the dirt, like she'd just said some kind of dirty word. You're not sure she's wrong.

"That's a little racist, don't you think?" You poke a little fun at her, but she doesn't get the joke and starts poking a finger at your chest.

"Give me a break. They've got uniforms, little swastikas and everything. It's like they wouldn't care if they got caught."

"Or they think they won't."

"Well, I caught them." Petulant and fiery as ever, that's your Marion. 

"And then you sent the telegram to me. And signed Reinhold's name." Smart. It certainly caught your eye. Just like she knew it would. Even after all this time she knows you better than you know yourself, it seems.

"That's why they pay you the big bucks, Jones." She pulls out a cigarette from a pouch she's got slung around her waist, still slim as ever, her hands still strong and wiry, deeply tanned from working outdoors. She's not a delicate creature and yet, she's as delicate a creature as he's ever seen.

"Have you found the fountain?" You have to ask, need to know. She's followed her research to find the place, and if there's one thing you've learned it's that seconding guessing another researcher is only going to slow you down. You can check her work as you go- you're already there and you've already seen the Nazis. 

The fucking Nazis. Jesus. It's 1961 for the love of Christ. They're supposed to be gone. Dead. Defeated.

But you've heard the stories, about the ratlines to South America. About the slimy bastards that slid under fences and dodged guards to get away from anyone who could hold them accountable, only to slink away to countries that offered asylum for reasons that you still can't understand, not for a single second.

"They found it." She points, glowing ember trapped between two fingers. You squint at her, tilting your head to the right.

"And how do you know that?"

"Guy goes in looking like Eisenhower, comes out looking like Elvis Presley, well, you know something happened to him and it wasn't your basic nip and tuck."

"And you're sure it's the same guy?"

"Pretty fucking sure." She reaches for her pack, dropping her cigarette, not bothering to stub it out, so you do it for her. She digs inside, her canteen and mess kit clanking against each other, until she pulls out a short stack of photographs with a triumphant growl. "Here you go."

She hands them to you and you hold them up side by side. The one on the left shows an older man, sour face, a long scar stretching across his cheek. His nose hooks to the left, his eyes have a sharp, cruel glint to them. The second picture shows a much younger man, same nose, same eyes, just missing the long scar. It's easy to see that it's the same man and any rational person would think it was the older man's son, or perhaps a younger picture of the older man. But the visible newspaper, date clear as day, tells you that isn't the case. 

"Holy hell, Marion. What am I looking at?" You know what you're looking at. You just need her to say it.

"The Fountain of Youth, in action. That's why they're here, Jones. They're here to get a new face. A new name is no good if someone is going to recognize you walking down the street. This is the perfect solution. No one is going to believe that these younger guys are the same men as the faces on the 'Most Wanted' posters. Those men will keep getting older, while these guys get decades younger."

"The perfect disguise." You throw the photographs down on the bed of the cart in disgust.

"Yep."

"We have to stop them, Marion."

"Yeah," she says, her face softening. "I thought you'd say that." 

She leans forward and kisses you, right on the lips, full and heavy. She pulls away before you have the chance to really kiss her back. And then she's off and running towards the tree line, where she's got her supplies hidden and all you can do is start running to catch up with her.

*

You sit in the bushes and you watch them, for a whole day. It's easy to get a feel for their watch schedule because they don't deviate from it. Same old Nazis. It makes you want to puke. 

They've got a regular rotation, one man on at a time, one man coming in to relieve him. You sleep while Marion watches, then you switch off. You shouldn't be so comfortable letting your guard down, letting someone else hold the gun, but it feels like second nature with her. You're not sure what that means.

After a day and a half, you determine that it won't be much effort to slide past their guard in the middle of the shift from two to four in the morning. The guard the night before had practically fallen asleep on his feet and based on tonight's rotation, the same guys are taking the same shifts.

When the guard from the night before shows up to trade shifts, you know that this is a good plan and you're good to go with it.

You put as many tools as you can fit in your satchel and watch Marion do the same. You want to be as light as possible, but be able to do the work needed to make a rubbing of any carvings you might find, or pry off any coverings that might be there.

The Nazi guard, who looks like he's eighteen but based on Marion's pictures and her theory could be older than you, doesn't even look your way as you crawl out of your hiding spot and ease on up the path, just inside the tree line.

They're clearly prepared for a full frontal assault and not looking for something to come from the side because you're able to crawl along the foliage next to the path, Marion just a few short lengths behind you. Carefully on your hands and knees, you're quiet and after the path takes a curve to the right, you're able to stand up and help Marion up to her feet. 

There aren't any other guards, at least not as far as you can see. It seems to be all clear.

"Let's go," you say, pointing.

"No kidding," Marion replies, rolling her eyes. Some things never change.

*

You're a bit out of breath by the time you get to the mouth of the cave, but you try to hide it. Marion says nothing and you appreciate that more than you can express to her.

"This way," she says.

"I thought you hadn't been up here." You frown at her, worry pooling in your gut. What if this is all some kind of trap? What if Marion-

"Look at all the foot prints. Where are all the supplies stacked. They've built a goddamn footpath, Jones. Did you even notice the footpath?" She's got her hands on her hips and she's mad, at you. Which is not unusual. You do not want to admit that no, you had not noticed the footpath.

"Let's go." You point and push her forward with a less than gentle nudge. She stumbles a bit and you pull her back, to keep her from falling. You'd apologize but she's never been good apologies from you. Perhaps that's because you're not very good at giving them. Still, you say nothing and let her lead into the cave.

*

Every twenty feet, drilled into the wall, are a series of lamps hanging from hooks. At the mouth of the cave, the light is bright and the lamps illuminate the walk pretty well. The deeper you walk into the cave, however, the lights start to dim until they no longer work at all.

You pull out a flashlight but, despite knowing that it should work because you checked it before you left the house, which was why you packed the damn thing, it doesn't turn on.

"What the hell, Jones? What's going on?"

"You tell me. You've been here longer." Despite all the times when you've faced unexplainable situations, it doesn't stop being annoying.

"You think this has something to do with the Fountain?"

You pull out your Zippo and flick it on, getting a small flame. To the left and right of you are small piles of torches. Literal torches, just waiting to be lit, a small pile of burnt ones stacked just beyond the fresh ones.

"Yeah, I'm thinking so." You point, the lighter starting to get hot in your hand, and you pick up a torch. The end, a greased rag tied tightly to the wood, lights almost instantly at the touch of your flame. You hand it to Marion and grab another for yourself.

The air is cooler here, wet, the walls damp, although it doesn't smell like mold or mildew. It smells fresh, like a waterfall. You're listening for sounds of running water and despite knowing there's a river nearby, you can't hear anything.

And then, there it is.

You've been walking through a tunnel in a cave that was taller than you, by more than three feet, and wide enough for four men to walk abreast. Plenty of room, for sure. After a brief narrowing, the tunnel opens up into an actual room and the torches are no longer necessary. 

The Fountain stands in the middle of the room, glowing gently from a light that you can't see the source of. It could be internal, but you're not sure how that's possible.

Marion's hand on your arm makes you stop walking.

"I knew that it was here. I mean, in theory. But, to see it-"

"Yeah," You say, because you've had that moment happen to you more than once. You can't explain it, you just experience it. You take her torch and set it on the floor with yours, rolling them gently on the rocky floor to put out the flame.

The Fountain is raised off the floor, but only by a foot or two, no more, square with a gently running fountain in the center of it. The Fountain itself seems to be made of gold, although the texture even from as far away as you're standing, doesn't look smooth and has a shimmery glow to it. 

The water moving in the fountain seems to glow, but not with the same golden light as the Fountain itself. The water has more of a blue glow, cold and icy, in contrast to the warmth the stones give off.

You step closer and closer until you and Marion are resting your shins against the edge of the pool, the water shimmering below you. There are words written on the Fountain itself and you squint to read them. You left your reading glasses with the rest of your baggage and you could kick yourself for not throwing them in your satchel.

"That's it? We just walk in here? No traps? No tricks?" Marion looks at you as if you know the answer.

"Why you looking at me? I've been here just about as long." But you lean in closer to look at the inscription. "Huh."

"What," she asks, looking at you funny.

"I think," you start, rubbing at your forehead, pushing your fedora back on your head a bit. "It says 'youth is wasted on the young' or something to that effect. It's an ancient dialect."

"Wasn't that George Bernard-"

"Shaw? Yeah, that's what I thought, too." You look around the room, the glow from the fountain lightening up even the darkest corners, at least a little bit. There's nothing else in the room, not an animal carcass, not another pile of torches. The place has been swept clean. Either there was something else there and the Nazis removed it, or there was never anything there to begin with.

"So, now what?"

"You don't have a plan?" The exasperation just seeps into your voice and you turn to face her.

"That's what I brought you here for!" Clearly, you're not the only one exasperated.

"I thought you brought me here to kill Nazis." You poke a finger in her general direction.

"That, too!" You're mere inches apart, practically breathing each other's air. She smells like sweat and tobacco, and maybe some Oil of Olay face wash but you'll never admit you knew that, for a variety of reasons.

"Have a drink." You spit out the words and it feels like they're coming out of someone else's mouth. It's weird, you haven't really had this happen before, but there you are, telling her to take a drink from an unknown glowing fountain in a Nazi infested mountain.

"Wait, what?" She starts, looks at you funny, and drops her hands from her hips.

"We should drink from it, see if it's really true. We could always take water back to be analyzed but what if it only works here? There's a reason they didn't drag this back to wherever they were staying prior to this." 

You're starting to like this idea, which is good, because it's yours. If it works, if it's real, you'll get rid of a few things, like the daily aches and pain, perhaps a few scars that are a bit unsightly, and best of all, depending on how far back it throws you, you could walk out of this cave and start over. 

You're the last living Jones from your branch of the family tree and there aren't exactly a ton of people who recognize you from before your University of Chicago days.

You done a lot of things, said a lot of things, that you wish you could take back. There are a lot of people that wish Indiana Jones was dead. This might be a way for them to get their wish, but for you to keep on living. The best of both worlds.

If it works the way you think it does.

"You want to- you should have your head examined."

"You're telling me you haven't wanted to start over, to get a do-over for the life you wished you had?"

"Sure, but-"

"What would it hurt? Huh?"

"What would it- Jones, come on! You do this, and it works, there's no way for you to walk back into your life. No way to explain it, no way to-"

"This works, why do I care? I could start over, start a brand new life. You could, too." You reach out and take her hand, which is really more of a fist, but you pry her hand open and weave your fingers in between hers. Her palm is sweaty and you can feel her heart beating at the base of her thumb. "Come on, " you say, "this isn't the worst thing you've done with me."

She rolls her eyes at you but leans in closer.

"What a salesman you are. What do I tell me colleagues? My friends? What do I-"

You cut her off with a kiss. The world is spreading out in front of you, behind your eyes, filling your heart, and you suddenly can't imagine the world moving forward without her with you. Her lips are dry, despite the moisture in the air. It takes a second but she kisses you back.

She kisses you back.

Her arms wrap around you, her chest against yours, your bodies hot and hard together.

And then she's pushing you away, breathing heavy.

"Damn it, Jones. You always have to have your way, don't you." She stomps over to the Fountain and with a quick look back to you, she leans over and scoops up a handful of water. "Well? You coming or what?"

You join her and lean over, feeling every muscle and bone creak and ache, all your years showing themselves as you lean over to get your own handful. The water's cold, icy, surprisingly so in the warm glow of all that gold. The fountain still doesn't make much more sound than a gentle gurgle.

Marion looks at you, you look at her, and you both drink. Then you close your eyes and you wait.

*

She looks exactly the same as she did the day you met her, on her father's dig in Crete, when you were his graduate student and she was his teenage daughter.

You lean over the fountain to look at yourself and find that you don't look a day over what you did at sixteen. Your hair's grown out, had a bit of curl to it, and the scar you got on that train all those years ago, that's missing now. That makes you calculate- you put your age at roughly 15.

Well, that's your best guess when you're looking at a reflection in water. You watch your own hands come up to touch your face, and jump a bit when Marion's hand joins them.

"Indy, my god, look at you." She sounds a bit shell-shocked but in the best possible way.

"Holy shit, Marion, look at YOU." Your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence and you both giggle. She ducks in for a quick kiss, then leans over to look at herself some more in the water.

"It worked. Goddamn, Jones, it worked." She sounds surprised, which doesn't surprise you, and pleased, which kind of does. 

"So, what now," you say, because while you talked her in to drinking, more a dare than anything, you didn't really believe it would work.

"I guess we start over." She stands up, adjusting her clothes, clothes that are too big in certain areas, hanging funny on her new teenage shape. She holds out her hand for him to shake. "Hi. I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Ravenwood."

"Elizabeth Ravenwood? What the hell?"

"We have to start over, right? Come up with a new name that we can use, because we sure as shit can't use our real names, not for the moment. So, I always wished I'd been named something classy, like Elizabeth." She keeps holding out her hand, waiting, and you realize that she's waiting for you to come up with something of your own. 

And then it comes to you, much in the same way that 'Indiana' came to you way back in the day.

"Mutt," you say, with a smirk. "Mutt Williams. Pleasure to meet you."

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of liked the idea of Mutt Williams but didn't like how he was presented in the fourth film. I thought he was an interesting way of bringing a de-aged Indy into the world, since Indy was known to the government, for his work, and the archeological community. If he wanted to continue on, he'd need a new name to go with his young face, and so I stole the identity of Mutt and played around with it to make it mine. I hope that despite your dislike of the fourth film, this was an acceptable use of him.
> 
> I made some changes here- Mutt doesn't exist as the child of Indy and Marion. I pushed the date of this story back to 1961, as that was when the caves at Chiapas were actually discovered by outside parties. since I'm not keeping with any canon for the 4th movie, it doesn't really matter but I thought I'd clear that up.


End file.
